


hands only by your knees

by koedeza



Series: prompts [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Gen, Hurt!Sam, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, this is kind of intense so tread carefully
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24135358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koedeza/pseuds/koedeza
Summary: Avoiding sleep becomes a game. Cold brews and piss-colored energy drinks, late night stake-outs and flickering motel lights. His clothes get looser and the bags under his eyes darker but he thinks his mind is getting sharper and Dean might be worried but Sam is afraid, and that seems to trump everything else.No, he doesn’t sleep much anymore.
Series: prompts [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1136627
Comments: 7
Kudos: 60
Collections: Sam Winchester Prompt-a-thon





	hands only by your knees

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Lennelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lennelle/pseuds/Lennelle) in the [SamWinchester_Prompt_a_thon](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SamWinchester_Prompt_a_thon) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Sam dreams of blood.
> 
> tw's in the tags.

The first time, he thinks it’s like an art.

Ethereal in the way they move, knives like dancers as they slice across pale skin and split it apart. 

This time the slice is on his shoulder, bone-deep and long, stretching from his sternum all the way to the base of his shoulder blade. The technique is perfect, and the cut’s been made by someone who so obviously has had practice. He doesn’t want to think of what that implies as he lays there, the pine needles underneath him soaking up everything that spills out from inside him. 

He lays in an almost silence; shallow breaths, the caw of dark birds, the rustle of wind through the forest, the drip drip _drip_ as blood pools underneath him. His shoulder is starting to hurt now, muscles throbbing as his body begins to comprehend that something is very, irreparably wrong. Sam grits his teeth, waiting for the pain to come in waves that he won't have the strength to fight off. Distantly, even with blurry, kaleidoscope vision, he sees one of the knives that’s been abandoned on the forest floor. In the sunlight, it glitters with fresh blood. 

His shoulder is begging to burn, limbs rattling. He presses a hand to the ground, digs his fingers into the bloody dirty. 

“Help,” He can’t cry out, but if he can just get the words out into the air—

“Please, someone help me,” It’s a whisper, and it can barely be heard above the sway of branches. 

The dripping never stops.

**-x-**

The inside of Baby is dark. 

Sam wakes up and his shoulder still burns. He tries to be as still as possible, one hand crossing over his chest to feel at ruined flesh. Not ruined; just mutilated in dreams. His mind reels as he sits up gingerly, careful to avoid further aggravating his shoulder. 

He rolls it, just to prove to himself it’s fine. 

It's ok. Dean is slack-jawed in the front seat, an empty beer bottle hanging from a loose hand. Dean’s ok, Sam’s ok. 

He’s ok, but his shoulder still burns and his eyes water with phantom pain. 

**-x-**

The girl sitting in front of him has pretty blue eyes the color of the Caribbean. An unlit cigarette dangles from her lips. She’s gaunt, and as she squats in the dark her eyes get dull. 

Sam knows what starvation looks like, and this is it.

He tries moving his wrists, feels open sores rub against fraying rope, and a metal pole digging into his spine.

“You thrash in your sleep,” She says, voice rough with disuse. “I wish you would stop.” 

It’s so polite Sam has to bite his lip to keep from giggling. The signs of shock and blood loss bounce around in his head but don’t register. 

She lights the cigarette and Sam gets a glimpse of wherever they’re holed up; a moldy basement, or maybe an abandoned backroom. Either way, he’s cold and he craves the girl’s cigarette so much that his mouth starts to water. Mason jars filled with blood are lined up against the wall.

“You’re so skinny,” He mumbles, tongue sluggish enough that he feels drunk. 

The girl smirks and blows smoke into his face with calculated efficiency. She holds up her wrist so he can see a thin red line peeping through the skin, feeding directly into a shrunken vein. He follows the line and sees it’s connected to him, sticking right out of his thigh. His jeans have been roughly cut off a little above the knee, little bruises adorning his veins like flowers growing from vines, pinprick epicenters where the girl has inserted the needle. He’s never seen his skin look so bloodless, so white it’s almost grey.

Sam wonders how long he’s been here, rotting away like this. 

“You’re getting ready to leave?” His voice is paper-thin and it scrapes roughly against his ears.

“Someone’s coming for you,” She takes another drag, puts out the cigarette against the sole of her boot, then tucks it into her coat. “A brother, I think.” 

Dean.

“Oh,” Sam watches hazily as she pulls out the cord from her arm and applies a band-aid, leaving the tube to drip slowly onto the concrete. His blood looks black and gooey, like tar. She starts to place the jars in a satchel she has, wipes bloody hands against the wall. 

Everything is stained in variations of red.

“Are you gonna,” His mouth is so dry he can barely swallow. “Are you gonna let me go?” 

The girl stops moving, turns slowly enough that he can see the sharp glint in her eyes. She looks young. Young and alone. Slowly, she bends down and leans close to him, tucking a strand of lank hair behind his ear. 

“It’ll be over soon, I promise.” 

By the time she’s gone, he can barely hold his head up, eyes unwillingly focused on the bruised flesh of his legs. He’s so pale. 

He’s so—

**-x-**

Sam wakes up slowly, eyelids glued together with sleep. 

The sun is strong in the sky, and he slowly raises an arm to shield his face. Early morning and the sun isn’t even all the way up, but heat is beginning to secure its hold on everything. It should be very warm, warm enough that Sam’s fine with his loose cargo shorts, warm enough that seeing Dean in a tank top makes some kind of sense. 

Sam looks over at his brother, back hunched as he leans over John’s journal, uncharacteristically invested in the lore. A chewed-up pencil is tucked behind Dean’s ear, thumbs drumming something on the soft leather. His eyes glint a golden-green, and Sam feels blood begin to pound in his ears. 

“Sleeping beauty finally woke the fuck up, what a pleasant surprise.” Dean closes the journal and puts it down on the sand next to them, turning his eyes over to Sam. 

Sam’s barely registered the sound of waves splashing up against the shore and when he sits up and fully opens his eyes he realizes they’re on a beach. He looks down at his skin. He’s very tan, the skin on his shoulders burning and peeling, again and again, until weeks of hunting in the Florida keys turned his skin olive and freckled.

His skin is not grey, and his mouth is not dry, and when he reaches up to touch his hair it’s curly, saltwater and sand texturing it. His legs aren’t a map of needles, the ocean is not the color of the girl’s eyes.

“Sam?” Dean sounds concerned, a hand going to shake Sam’s shoulder. “Hey, you good?”

“Yeah, it’s fine, I’m just-” Sam feels confused. He digs his hand into the sand, tries to drag warmth into his body. 

He’s ok. Dean’s ok, and he’s ok, but he still feels cold.

Cold and alone.

**-x-**

Avoiding sleep becomes a game. Cold brews and piss-colored energy drinks, late-night stake-outs, and flickering motel lights. His clothes get looser and the bags under his eyes darker but he thinks his mind is getting sharper and Dean might be worried but Sam is _afraid_ and that seems to trump everything else.

No, he doesn’t sleep much anymore. 

**-x-**

The bridge shakes, rocks trembling and splitting apart. 

It’s collapsing, and Sam knows the serrated knife in his hand is not enough. 

Every time the monster in front of him moves, the ground shakes, cracks and fissures running through dirt and stone as if the earth wants to swallow them whole. Even above the monster’s violent roars, Sam can still hear the rush of the river below them, can still feel the chill in the winter air. Falling into the river means certain death, and both Sam and the monster know one of them has to die. 

Through the flutters of snow, Sam sees someone lying on the other side of the bridge, red surrounding their head like a halo, running down into the river. Their chest isn’t moving. 

Sam sucks in a terrified breath and charges forward, the knife in his hand a final Hail Mary. He slides under the monster and slashes at its legs, watches as its scales crackle orange. It might be dying, but it’s still angry. Sam does his best to get ahead of it, dodging most of its blows. Its claws graze across the side of his scalp, his back, his arm, and he’s so hopped up on adrenaline he feels nothing. The monster slams a foot down on the bridge and suddenly Sam is airborne, rocks rising next to him. 

Time slows.

Then, he falls.

The crash into the river knocks all the air out of his chest, and when he peels opens his eyes, everything burns. It takes everything he has to break through the surface as things slam into the water around him, as the river gets thicker and tries to pull him under. Once he’s able to get above the water he realizes, it’s not water at all. It’s blood, hot and thick, pulling him down by the ankles before he even has time to catch his breath. 

He slams into rocks and tree trunks, but the current propels his body forward and he can’t bring himself to push through the surface, he’s going to die, choking in a river of red, cold, alone, and 

so fucking _afraid._

**-x-**

As soon as his eyes shoot open he’s running. 

He’s barefoot but his feet slam on the pavement, carrying him far away from his dream, far away from wherever he fell asleep. Sam runs alongside a highway, cars racing past, the scene so blurry he’s afraid he might veer into traffic and get himself killed.

The highway stretches out before him but behind him are woods, still shrouded in some kind of dark, and dawn must be far away but he’s awake, he’s awake, where is he going _goddammit_ he doesn’t have time to think about that right now he just has to make his feet carry him forward until he’s safe from whatever is behind him and pine needles are suddenly digging into his skin, branches scratching his cheeks as he pelts forward-

A car door screeches open, slams shut, Sam would recognize those noises anywhere.

Sam stops. Mostly because there’s no more air in his lungs and his legs burn too much and he feels like he is going to throw up and he doesn’t know what else he can do besides sit down. 

Someone is coming towards him, tree branches snapping underfoot. 

He’s never felt panic like this, or maybe he has, but blood roars in his ears, and all he can think about is red sunsets, red pavement, red snow, red skin, red knives.

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” Sam’s voice cracks and he digs the heels of his hands into his eye-sockets, because maybe if he can’t see what he remembers, then everything will go away—

“Sam, stop, you’re hurting yourself-” And then someone’s there, grabbing his wrists and pulling them away from his eyes, “-let go, you _idiot_!”, ripping off a curtain Sam has very precariously been stitching for months, and finally he can see. 

He sees Dean. 

Dean, perfectly whole and perfectly safe, wild eyes standing out against freckled skin, hands wrapped tight around Sam’s wrists, breath coming just as fast as Sam’s, voice a litany of _sam breathe, i’m here, no one is going to hurt you, it’s just me, fuck, just- just breath, ok?_

One of Sam’s hands gets pressed up against Dean’s chest, and suddenly Sam feels the thick fabric of a coat and realizes he’s wearing an ill-fitting shirt and a pair of holey sweatpants. He’s cold, but suddenly he feels Dean’s heart pumping against his hand, strong and following a steady rhythm. 

“Feel that?” Dean says, voice barely above a whisper. He grabs Sam’s other hand and places it on his own chest. Sam’s heartbeat is rabbity but it’s slowing down, matching up with Dean’s. “You’re not dreaming anymore. You’re Sam Winchester, we’re in Montana, it’s November 3rd, and you’re here with your dumbass older brother.” Dean’s laugh is like a little bell jingling in Sam’s ears. 

He lets out a breath of cold air, sinks back against a pine tree, hands over both their hearts.

It’s quiet for a few minutes, but then Dean shifts a little bit. 

“Sam, it’s pretty fucking cold. You wanna head back?” 

Sam’s not entirely sure where “back” is, so he shakes his head, meets Dean’s eyes again. 

“Ok,” Dean looks back towards the road. “Ok, we can work with that. Stay here a sec,” 

Sam wants to protest, but Dean’s gone and back before he can think of anything to say. He comes trudging back with two blankets, a thermos, and a pair of socks. He presses himself up to Sam’s side and throws the blankets around both of them, handing the socks to Sam and pulling something out of his coat pocket. 

Sam pulls the socks on then watches as Dean dumps two bags of powder into the thermos. He shakes it, then pours the hot liquid into one of the cups and hands it to Sam who takes a small sip. 

“You don’t have to talk about it now,” Dean sets the thermos down and plays with the silver band on his finger. “You don’t have to talk about it now, or next week, or next year, but maybe one day you’ll be able to tell me everything is fine and it won’t be a lie.” 

Even though the sky is still grey, the sun slices through the trees and hits the ground, moving through the forest like a ghost.

Sam thinks he feels warmth seeping into his limbs. 

**Author's Note:**

> where the fuck did dean get hot chocolate and blankets? i'm just as lost as u are


End file.
